


Honour Bound

by fawatson



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles fulfills his promise to Arde Mayhew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honour Bound

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally written for:** Summer 2010 Bujold Ficathon  
>  **Originally posted to:** bujold_fic community on LiveJournal (please see:  
>  http://bujold-fic.livejournal.com/173491.html)  
>  **Prompts:** (1) Miles, bored to tears while immobile after one of his surgeries, embarks on an exciting new project! (Ivan finds himself drafted to do the heavy-lifting) and (2) Arde Mayhew finally acquiring his Necklin Rods/ship  
>  **Additional Prompt:** I also belong to Brigit's Flame (LiveJournal community) which posted the prompt “bump” for one of its writing challenges in August 2010.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.  
>  **Author’s Notes:** (1)This story is set during the period of Miles’ recuperation after he frees the Marilacan prisoners from Dagoola IV ( _Borders of Infinity_ ).

In the end, it was Ellie Quinn who smuggled it to him. From first glance Miles realised there had been a conspiracy to keep the message from his sight: dated the 4th; it was now the 17th. The deadline was the 19th. That was the problem with having devoted family retainers – they were a bit too devoted sometimes. He’d have to hustle; but how to do it? That was a problem. He was here on Barrayar; _they_ were there, halfway round the galaxy (and in Cetagandan space to boot). But he had promised. 

Miles' right arm had come out of its cast two days earlier, but his left arm was still in plaster, rendering him clumsy. He bumped it against one of the pavilion’s supports as he quickly rose from the chaise; a shooting pain up his arm left him momentarily unbalanced. He recovered after a minute to catch Ellie looking at him sardonically. 

“If you’re going to try rushing about like that, maybe I shouldn’t have shown that to you after all.” 

“Must get to the comm centre.”

“And _why_ is that, if I may be so bold to ask? Or should I rather ask _who_ you want to signal?” There was an amused lilt to Quinn’s voice that made Miles look at her sharply. 

“You forget, I was there at the beginning too,” Ellie reminded. “You kept your promise to me.” She gestured toward her face. “I never doubted you would keep your word to _him_.

“On my honour,” affirmed Miles. 

“Hmm, well...I couldn’t really say anything about that,” Ellie replied, “but you taught me a good commander doesn’t short his troops of their just rewards.” 

They had been walking down the path from the pavilion as they spoke, past tall maple trees and a somewhat overgrown hedge with lush pink flowers. Miles paused at the family plot, then pushed open the gate in its surrounding stone wall. Sergeant Bothari’s grave lay a few yards inside, its hand-carved marker no less ornate than those of the family he had served. He, too, had been there from the beginning – had sounded the note of caution when Miles, caught in the grip of determination, had sworn Arde Mayhew as Armsman simple. Yet he fancied that, in the end, Bothari had approved of that move, just as he would surely approve now. Almost from habit he had kneeled and cut off a lock of his hair. Now he fumbled in his pockets for something to light it with. Quinn’s hand reached down with her plasma arc, and he essayed a brief smile at her, before accepting it. It took just a touch on the lowest setting and his hair was gone. A tiny wisp of smoke carried honour and memories heavenwards. 

Duty done, Miles set a brisk pace back toward the house. He might not be able to do anything _personally_ , but that didn’t mean he couldn’t set events in motion.

>>>

“In _my_ judgement– ” Miles tried wheedling. He’d started his campaign from the comconsole at Vorkosigan Surleau, but lacking success there, had convinced Quinn to pilot his lightflyer to the capital. Fast talking had got him into ImpSec central, and Illyan’s office. It had gone downhill from there.

“Private judgements, Miles,” interrupted Illyan, “as a wise man once told me, are like getting a little bit pregnant. Inevitably, the consequences get the better of one.” His tone of voice couldn’t have been dryer. 

“But I gave my word – word of a Vor.” Even as he said it, Miles knew his argument would fail. 

“Fortunately, a condition which has never affected my word,” Illyan said as he ushered Miles out of his office. “This is the Imperial service, not your private playground, and I do not take kindly to you invading this office and disrupting my schedule this way. You are on sick leave and I do not expect to see you again before the doctors clear you for duty. Don’t make me give the security desk instructions to refuse you entry.” 

“No Sir.” Miles drew himself up as stiff and tall as he could manage and saluted in best parade ground fashion, before exiting. He did not, however, leave the building by the direct route, but turned left down a side corridor, and right again into a cramped cubicle in the corner of the Bureau for Cetaganda. Six years ago he’d come this way for his briefing before attending that state funeral. He was not _quite_ committed now, he thought, not until after he’d set up the additional link. He could still draw back if needed, he told himself, as he fitted the security keycard he had borrowed from Illyan’s secretary’s desk into the computer console in front of him. The warning light turned from flashing red to a nice steady green as he overrode the security protocols with the master card. 

As he reached into a cupboard for one of the remote access wands he would need to activate to use ImpSec frequencies from the Count’s home system, he bumped his left arm _again_. Miles barely stopped himself from swearing as his elbow throbbed in renewed agony (no need to alert anyone to his presence behind the partition), and looked at the offending peg he hadn't noticed as he'd reached in. Fluttering from it was a flimsy - a memo from Simon, he realised - warning that a code had been broken by the Cetagandans. Now, _that_ was interesting.... 

The wand pulsed orange as it was encoded, then glowed a steady crimson once the process was complete. Miles popped it into an inner pocket, disengaged the comconsole, and slipped quietly back to the front of the building. He’d find a way to convince Illyan later – or Gregor if need be. But time was of the essence now; he couldn’t waste it on bureaucratic approval processes or he’d miss that deadline. Miles ditched the security keycard in a bin conveniently situated near the exit, before rejoining Ellie Quinn in the ground car. 

“Where to now?” she asked. 

“The townhouse,” said Miles, “I have a message to send to the Cetagandans – and then the spaceport. I have a little errand for you.”

>>>

Sometimes, when forced to sit through one of those endless formal haut ceremonies, Ivan wondered what he must have done in a previous lifetime to get sent back here again. Now was not one of those times, however. In fact, long boring evenings spent in stiff collars at diplomatic dinners notwithstanding, Ivan could not remember enjoying a posting more than this second visit to Eta Ceta. It seemed Barrayarans were in vogue this month. Certainly _he_ was; this made the seventh bored Ghem-lady he’d entertained this week. He renewed his efforts and was rewarded with a long moan, before she reciprocated with skilful fingers. Of course, sometimes it could get a tad frustrating never consummating dalliances; but he had been warned that however accommodating Ghem-lords might be of flirtations, it was wise never to go beyond a certain point - unless, of course, he wanted to live dangerously. Ivan was all for the easy life. Not for him haring round the galaxy, here, there and everywhere, at top speed like _some_ people. Life should be sipped and savoured slowly, like a good wine. Fortunately, he had learned a few things during his sojourn last summer with the inestimable Lady Donna. Ivan reached out a lazy hand for the wine bottle and dribbled a little line down his partner’s belly, before bending to lap it up.

Several hours later Ivan emerged from the shower, ready for duty once more. He settled down to screen the messages that had accumulated that afternoon for Colonel Vorreedi. They were largely routine, but one gave him pause: a most odd request from ImpSec to bid at auction, in two days' time, for an obsolete freighter with its full cargo. The message was quite specific and clear. In no circumstances was he to bargain for just the vessel, though he would need to purchase it to the ensure “safe acquisition of the complete contents of the freighter, including all genetic materials, which are of vital importance to developing agricultural technologies and essential to save the Barrayaran economy.” Idle curiosity led Ivan to look up the auction lists. The freighter had been impounded for failure to pay excess docking dues accrued when the pilot, who had been taken ill suddenly, left his usual run making for the nearest port (which just happened to be Eta Ceta) and subsequently died. The shipping company which owned the spaceship had abandoned it and Cetagandan port authorities had seized the vessel in lieu of payment. The shipping manifest described its cargo as Nerillian sheep skins. _Sheep skins_? Ivan wondered how the hell sheep skins could be vitally important to Barrayaran farming. Were _Nerillian_ skins such a special sort? They must be. He looked them up in the database. Apart from some odd swirls of hair that made Nerillian wool look sort of bumpy – well, ugly, really – they just looked like ordinary sheepskins to him. But Ivan allowed he was not an expert on sheep; if ImpSec wanted them, then ImpSec should have them. They were sending out a tug to pick up the freighter.

>>>

The embassy communications centre was, of course, completely secure; but, as usual the Empire had had one of its spy ships cloaked and in the vicinity of Barrayar when the transmission had been sent off planet. Otherwise they might never have known. Ghem-Lord Yenaro, now a lieutenant conscripted into the military in expiation of his sins against the haut during the preparations for Dowager Empress Lisbet’s funeral, had manned the comconsole that intercepted the message. Of course not all military messages that were intercepted could be read; it did depend on the level of encryption. His eyes had opened wide and he’d raised his brows in shock when he read the message’s contents. He’d carefully double-checked to make sure _he_ made no error as he forwarded it homeward with top security coding.

It had been a simple exercise in subterfuge to switch cargoes. They could, of course, just have withdrawn the cargo vessel from the sale. In fact that would have been Benin’s choice. But he had been overruled, indeed criticised for his lack of subtlety, and so inferior Nerillian skins had been secretly offloaded and the superior skins of finely bred Cetagandan sheep substituted. All auction sales were “as is” and final, so any discovery of the change after the sale would leave the Barrayarans fuming but without redress. The Nerillian cargo was dispatched promptly to a secret lab for testing (two labs, in fact – the wool to one and the skins to another), and the Empire’s finest scientists set to work. If these bumpy skins were so valuable, it behoved the Empire to know why.

>>>

Ellie cursed roundly as she bumped her head against the transfer portal. Bloody Felicians! Never had she thought to come anywhere near this benighted backwater again. Once in a lifetime had been more than enough! The portmaster directed her to the spacer’s establishment where Arde Mayhew was known to hang out. She found him in a dark corner nursing a glass of some cloudy green liquid, and swearing at all comers. Swearing, that is, until she explained why she was there.

“To be red again!” he exclaimed incomprehensibly. “Hespari II here I come!”

“Hold on, just a minute, buddy,” Quinn pushed him back down in his chair as he jumped up in excitement. “First things first. Those skins have to be sold; I’m told they’re top quality and will bring in a pretty penny which should repay the price of that clapped-out freighter we had to buy to _get_ your blasted Necklin rods, plus give you something leftover for start-up costs.”

>>>

“Explain this to me, Miles.” Gregor’s voice was deceptively gentle, but Miles was under no illusions: he was in deep trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Miles began, “It all really started eight years ago when Arde crashed the RG132 into a warship. The bump bent the Necklin rods....”


End file.
